


Snaga

by Anonymous



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, Rough Oral Sex, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 16:56:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5505677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas gets captured by Bolg after he flees Laketown.</p><p>Prompt fill for the kink/ship amnesty night with the following request: Bolg/Legolas, 76. Rough sex/pain.</p><p> <b>Heed the warnings</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	Snaga

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyGaGalion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGaGalion/gifts).



> snaga = slave  
> golug = elf

**SNAGA  
**

*****

 

When he awakes, startled out of his unconscious state by rattling chains or keys, Legolas has no idea where he is, and more importantly, why he is there. All he knows is that every fiber of his body hurts, maddeningly so, to draw in a breath is enough to send a jolt of pain along his spine.

An awkward darkness surrounds him, disrupted by only but a few torches in the far distance, and cold wind hoovers along his naked skin.

He blinks, and then again, but memory would not return to him, no matter how hard he tries.

_Where am I? Why have I come here? Why am I alone and freezing? Where is Tauriel?_

 

*

In the midst of his flailing he hears voicing cooing somewhere near him, and finally his mind snaps into attention, shaking off the last haze of unconsciousness.

“I wonder what to do with you, snaga,” the creature – an orc apparently - grunts, and faintly the words reach Legolas through the veil of pain. _‘Snaga… slave,’_ he repeats in his mind and terror sizes him as distant memories float his mind.

The creature is not the one that has brought him here, a lot smaller, gentler even to some extent. Flickers of the past manifest themselves before his inner eye, and it are these memories that make him tremble. They have dragged him through endless tunnels and halls of twilight, down endless stair deep down the earth and deeper still where no sunshine would ever touch him.

At one point he must have lost conscious, because where his memory ends, he simply was thrown into a dark cell with his arms bound behind his back – but now he is completely restrained.

Without paying too much notice to his whine of pain, the orc continues to think aloud: “Fuck your arse or fuck your mouth. It is a hard choice you know. We do not have golug often. Hard choice.” Smeary fingers trail down his spine, trail lower still between the cleft of his buttocks and he flinches – as much as he can. Legolas rattles against the heavy chains that keep him spread across the wooden horse he’s bent over and tied onto with his legs, arms stretched uncomfortably behind his back. Iron manacles adorn his wrists, and shackles bite into his bruised ankles, and again he hisses in pain.

“Get your filthy hands off him, NOW,” a voice thunders across the room, “he is mine and mine alone,” and in an instant the creature obeys and flees the room in terror.

“And now to you elf-scum,” comments the other creature, drawing closer with swift steps, until he stands right before him. Clotted blood sticks to Legolas’ face, his mouth, eyelids almost glued down by it, yet somehow he wishes he had not forced his eyes open.

It is Bolg, spawn of Azog, who speaks, the despicable creature who has caught him when he has chased after the orc party which attacked Laketown.

He doesn’t see much as his eyes are on the same level as Bolg’s loins are, adorned with a disgusting garment entirely made out of bones. He sees strong muscles flex underneath the pale skin of the orc, he sees scars and swirls of white spread all over his torso as his eyes crawl upwards, and in disgust he quickly forces his eyes close again before nausea threatens to overwhelm him. Never before has he seen anything so distasteful.

“Is it true you weaklings die when taken by force as the master says?” Bolg asks with a grunt and in response, Legolas finds himself nodding.

So it is said at least.

Involuntarily the faintest of hopes arises within him, maybe a chance persists that he is spared from the fate that seems unavoidable – for better or for worse he does not know.

“A pity,” snarls Bolg, not without a certain amusement, “almost. Do you know what else the master says?” he asks, feigning ignorance.

No, how – for all that is dear to him – should he know what the creature’s master says? Therefore he remains quiet, and, perhaps more importantly, he does not even wish to know as such a horrid and foreboding laughter reaches his ears. “That golug’s mouth is an exception,” explains Bolg with a snarl, for moments it is as if his entire body freezes upon the notion.

The creature cannot mean what the words imply, he simply cannot.

The threatening silence is only disturbed by the heavy gasp that falls from Legolas’ lips shortly after, by the futile rattle of chains that hold his arms in place.

“NO,” he hears himself screaming, but his cries are drowned out by the creature’s fey and malicious laughter.

He wishes he would be dead already, but then he wonders, is it true? Is it true what the orc’s master implies?

How on earth should he know, how should anybody know?

And worse: HOW DO THEY KNOW?

With a malicious grin the pale orc regards him, and the clattering of metal reaches Legolas’ ears. He is already hanging in chains, what need is there for more?

“Oh yes, yes” says Bolg with gruesome amusement, and Legolas wonders from what the sound derives; knives perhaps, or swords, another chain? He doesn’t dare to look.

Not until he is backhanded with such brute force, and then again, that he thinks his skull flies from his spine; clotted wounds tear open anew and the metallic taste of blood tickles his lips as the red liquid runs down his cheeks, down towards the corners of his mouth.

Still, he keeps his eyes tightly shut.

Thick fingers run along his collarbone, his cheekbones, along his neck and so maddeningly disgusting the touch is that Legolas tries to flinch away, a reaction that makes the orc laugh all the more.

The next thing he feels is cold metal against the skin of his neck, biting into it as its fastening clicks shut – a collar! A slave, and worse!

Terror sizes him and his eyes flutter open, much to Bolg’s delight.

Some words he cannot quite remember spill across his lips, words of hatred and fear, of dismay and futile hope perhaps.

It is clear towards where exactly this leads and so sick, so terribly sick he feels.

For his father he screams, for his long dead mother, too, for all what is dear to him – but everything seems lost in the endless darkness that surrounds him.

With violent force a slick finger slips past his blood-stained lips, and then another, opening his mouth as widely as it would; of course he tries to close it, to bite, to fight – but all attempts are done in vain.

With his other _‘hand’_ Bolg brings an iron gag before Legolas’ eyes, crude and disgusting craftsmanship, a hollow ring made out of dark metal, broad enough to cover both lips and teeth, so large that it can hardly fit into anyone’s mouth. Two small, but long chains are attached to it on either side, with leather strings weaved through the lugs.

Before he can absorb the other sickening details his head is roughly yanked backwards and forcefully the ring is pushed past his lips and Legolas feels as if his jaw would crack under the strength the orc applies.

“Not that you bite me,” Bolg grunts, as he securely fastens the gag at the back of his head, and admittedly Legolas would have tried that indeed.

 _Would_.

The iron chains dig into his cheeks, bite and itch against the already bruised flesh, and great delight the pale orc takes in his futile struggle. “Ada,” Legolas croaks when all remaining hope leaves him.

He cannot escape, lying in heavy chains, arms and legs securely fastened, gagged with the cruelest of devices and it is the realization that makes bile gurgle up his gullet.

“Now watch, snaga,” comments Bolg, voice hoarse, his gaze heavy with gluttonous glee, “watch what shall be yours to take. I have heard you elf like it rough .. like it big .. now do you?”

“Fuck you,” spits back Legolas, but the words coming from his throat are nothing more than idle babbles as the gag makes it unable to speak; all he can ever do is to watch the dreadful scene unfold before his eyes. Bolg’s pale and disgusting hands tear at the idle fastenings of what seems to be his normal wardrobe; pants entirely made of bones. The noises the rattling remains make when touched is heart-wrenching, dreadful clatters of one who once perhaps has been one of his kin.

When the distasteful _‘garment’_ falls down onto the floor and Bolg’s cock springs into his vision Legolas feels as if he will faint from the sight alone; hard, traversed with prominent veins that shimmer beneath the translucent skin, adorned with dark spatters of which he hopes it is only dried blood. The tip of the orc’s cock – where an impressive iron ring sits - is already wet and glistening with pre-come, so large and massive that it literally takes his breath away when everything falls into places in his mind - the gag that spreads his lips so widely open that his jaw already begins to burn, the corners of his mouth slowly tearing upon the sheer strength, the position he is kept in.

His horror-stricken face when dreadful realization hits him certainly amuses the orc as he hears him chuckle above him, low and filthy.

His lips will crack and burn once the orc forces his cock into his mouth, gagging him, cutting of his breathing until he loses consciousness; fuck his mouth until he floats in the awkward state between life and death, his fëa separating itself from his hroä.

A shudder of disgust runs through him then – is this the final punishment for the fantasies he had once harbored, harbors still? Of ungentle hands that make him moan and shiver, of another elf who fucks his mouth relentlessly and without mercy, who ties him, gags him – _fucks_ him until all pain turns into pleasure?

His eyes are watery already, and when he blinks, tears spill over.

“NO,” he screams out in protest and with all strength that is left within him he fights and thrashes against the iron restraints, futilely so, and as he does, Bolg draws nearer until Legolas’ nose nearly brushes against his crotch. The smell of death tickles his nose and then his mind, robbing him off all his senses as he drowns in the stench unbeknown to the fair son of Thranduil. Where he has hoped it’s merely blood he does not think anymore it is and in silence he wonders if the creature has ever seen any water apart from the pouring rain.

He doubts it.

Amidst such cruelty he finds himself begging – for mercy, for help, for what exactly he does not know, but entirely unimpressed the pale orc regards him. It nearly is as if he revels in the helpless and pitiful sight Legolas presents – collard, gagged and restrained.

 _‘Snaga’_ – slave – how strangely befitting the words are.

This is what he is, what he has become under his captor’s hands.

Tears run down Legolas’ face, hot and wet and desperate and in silence he asks for his father, his mother to save him from this hell. The manacles bite into his writs, pinching off the blood that flows through his veins; his entire body seems numb, at the mercy of another, distastefully so. Never before has Legolas experienced anything alike.

“Enough of this whining, elf-scum,” the orc rumbles low in his throat, and with brute force he catches a handful of now greasy strands, yanking Legolas’ head backwards until his spine begins to crack, “time to make you shut up, time to make you choke and cough and splutter.”

With almost utter care Bolg inserts the tip of his cock through the hollow ring – but care for himself and his cock is all he is capable of, Legolas soon finds out. Without further warning the orc begins to thrust his pulsating length into the elf’s mouth, moaning, grunting, holding Legolas’ head firmly in place and forcing him down until he chokes around it.

“Now how does that feel, golug? Mouth stuffed with cock, say – does this make you .. _wet_?”

The constant ache of his jaw from the gag is drowned out by the brutal force the orc fucks his mouth and by the iron ring that repeatedly hits the back of his throat until the coppery taste of blood gathers upon his tongue.

“Such a lovely mouth you have,” snarls the creature, almost affectionate, a notion which pains the helpless elf all the more, “made for fucking I daresay.”

Soon Legolas cannot breathe, cannot think anymore, choking and gagging on the orc’s massive cock, the stench surrounding him nearly impossibly to bare. With every muffled cry that slips past his spread lips, Bolg moves harder and faster, spurred on by the helpless sound he makes.

Too much, it is too much to bare, to endure, and hot tears stream down Legolas’ cheeks as brutally the creature’s cock fucks his mouth until saliva mingles with blood upon his chin into a disgusting blend. He almost can hear it dripping down onto the cold floor, gathering in a tiny pool below his face, and no mercy does Bolg show him.

Silent screams gather themselves in his mind but no word will ever spill across his blood-stained lips, the thick length suffocating him, silencing him so cruelly.

In the midst of his misery he hears the orc grunt above him, moaning, filthily so, his breathing sharp and rigid.

If he has thought it cannot get worse, he is mistaken, as for moments Bolg halts his thrusting and stays deadly still, his cock buried deep in his throat with the iron ring piercing against the back of it. To inhale is almost impossible already, with his nose pressed tightly against the orc’s cold and sweaty skin, but it gets worse, far worse than anything he has endured has ever been.

For seconds, the orc’s fingers plays idly with strands of saliva drooling from his most, almost affectionately caressing his abused skin – but then Bolg laughs, disdainfully, and Legolas feels a finger on each side of his nose which cuts off the last remains of breath he can draw in.

A gurgle rises from his stomach, he gulps around the pulsating length, struggles, thrashes as much as he’s allowed to with his head being held firmly in place.

He feels like dying, and for the first time in his life he feels the gentle darkness embrace him, calling him and the moment he feels his fëa disconnect from his body, Bolg withdraws his cock from his mouth, allowing him to breathe again. Although he does not want to, he feels how oxygen pours into his lungs, chasing away the stars he saw just moments ago.

And then, everything starts anew, the mess of blood and spit within his mouth ensuring the perfect lubrication for the creature’s gruesome deed.

With such frantic force Bolg fucks his mouth, barely giving him the chance to recover between the thrusts, making him swallow around what is his to take. His nostrils are still tightly pressed shut, and all he can ever to is to cough around the orc’s cock, splutter, choke and before he knows what happens he feels acidic bile bubble up his throat, mingling with blood, saliva and cum upon his tongue.

His face grows ashen, and his entire body jerks upon the realization that he has to swallow down his own vomit as Bolg gags him until consciousness leaves him for the blink of an eye.

In such ugliness the creature grunts and moans and screams above him – he is close, Legolas notices with a shudder of disgust - his massive body jerking and twitching as he fucks him; harder, faster than before.

It doesn’t take long until he finally comes with a shrieking howl.

Everything around Legolas blurs, the flickering torchlight, the shadows, the sticky liquid in his mouth, the blood and spit, the dreadful sounds the orc makes when he spills himself deep down the elf’s throat.

He’s forced to swallow (of course – what else did he think), and the disgusting taste of blood and salty cum leaves nausea in its wake. Legolas is close to vomit all over the orc’s softening cock, overwhelmed by the crude sensation Bolg takes from his body and with delight the creature saviors every second.

Tears still adorn Legolas’ eyes, beading at its corners and glittering in his eyelashes as the orc regards him in his post-orgasmic haze.

 

*

“And now?” Bolg coos maliciously once he has recovered from the throes, backhanding Legolas to bring him back into the world of the living, “shall I let my legions come forth? Oh what delight they would take in devouring your petty mouth, golug, not often do we have such precious guest as you. Or - shall I keep you all to myself? So many possibilities, oh just so many options.”

With terror Legolas notices that upon the words the orc’s flaccid cock springs to life anew.

**Author's Note:**

>  **[Disclaimer]** \- Legolas and Bolg are not mine. They belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and Tolkien Estate – I just like to explore their lives a little further. No money is made from this story.
> 
>  **[General]** \- Feel free to contact me on tumblr:


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